


Fire and Fleet and Candlelight

by Minutia_R



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Dancing, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Geese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 13:43:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11232201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minutia_R/pseuds/Minutia_R
Summary: Some days, you gotta dance.





	Fire and Fleet and Candlelight

**Author's Note:**

> For the Synchronised Screaming prompt _Michael/Signe - Firelight Waltz_.

The power is out again. Mathilde put on her waders and voluminous rain-slicker and went out to deal with the generator, and Mette and Marcus took the opportunity to let the geese loose in the house. Magnus, the coward, was no help, but retreated to the top of the tallest cabinet, where he’s still yowling at the top of his lungs.

At least Michael is trying. Careening through the living room, flapping his arms and hollering--he might as well be one of the geese. He should have stuck with advertising. Or whatever it was he used to do. Something nobody really needed back then, and sure as hell nobody needs now.

Morten is fiddling with the radio. Morten is always fiddling with the radio. Never mind that it’s been more than a month since they picked up anything but static.

One of the geese stretches its neck out, hissing at Signe. Who knew geese had teeth on their beaks? Who knew geese had teeth on their _tongues?_ It’s scarier horror-movie shit than that monster that washed up on the beach a few weeks back, but luckily Signe has a secret weapon. She gives the devil-bird another shove with the broom.

“Out,” she snaps, and, hissing and flapping, the goose backs out the kitchen door and into the yard. That’s the last of them.

“How do you do that?” says Michael, flushed and panting.

Signe shrugs. “It’s just like dealing with customers. Except that the geese can’t demand to talk to the manager.”

Michael screws up his face and opens his mouth to say something stupid, probably, but then he just leaves it open and no sound comes out. Even Magnus quiets down. Morten takes his hands away from the radio, ever so slowly, like he’s just performed a magic trick or (what Signe, after more extended-family experience than she ever expected to have, has come to realize is basically the same thing) gotten a baby to sleep.

Music is pouring out of the radio. It sounds like a violin, high and sweet, and something else making a low buzzing noise in the background. There are no words. There is no announcer speaking, no clue where the broadcast is originating from. No news. Only music.

Kirsten has been setting out candles--Mathilde might get the power back on soon, and then again she might not--but she pauses with a hand on the mantlepiece. Closes her eyes, tilts her head slightly back, the slightest of smiles playing on her lips.

For a moment everything is absolutely motionless. The only sign that time is passing comes from the progression of notes. The candles bathe the house in a golden glow, though their light is barely stronger the gray drizzling light that comes through the windows.

“Do you--” Michael says. He swallows, tries again, holding out his hand to Signe. “Do you want to dance?”

Signe knew he was going to say something stupid. He’s always saying the most incongruous, impractical things. Romance--sure as hell nobody needs that now. They need to clear the broken crockery from the floor, for starters, and all the tracked-in mud.

Signe takes his hand, puts one of hers on his waist. His body is warm against hers, and he's got a bulk like a sea-wall, comforting and safe. Her brain reminds her that the first time she saw him he had broken down into hysterical tears because he was going to miss a business meeting, but her body’s not listening. Stupid body. He smiles down at her nervously. It’s pretty obvious that neither of them knows what the hell they’re doing.

The notes of the violin climb higher. Any second now, the broadcast will break up, and the lights will come back on (please God), and Marianne will bellow from upstairs that Mette and Marcus have filled the bathtub with eels. And who knows if a moment like this will ever come again?


End file.
